


He Puts The "Gold" In Goldfish

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Of Backstory, A Wee Nip Of Angst, All Of The Sweet, Boys Kissing, Fluff, I have no idea where this came from, M/M, Please Excuse The Atrocious Title, Warning: May Cause Uncontrollable Squeeing, Well Wee Compared To Other Stuff I've Written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade finds out what Mycroft really thinks of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Puts The "Gold" In Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this just popped into my head and I wrote it all in one go. No matter what, though I finally FINISHED something and that makes me pretty damn proud of myself.

 

 

He'd actually been mad as hell when Sherlock told him, the World's Only Consulting Five Year-Old's goal, he was quite sure. He was even angrier than when he found out about Mycroft's involvement with his little brother's suicide and subsequent resurrection. That at least had a viable explanation. Greg thought maybe there had been something there with the elser Holmes brother after Sherlock came back. He supposed, if he was honest with himself, there had been some prerequisite itching in the back of his mind even earlier that he pushed out as soon as it started up. He'd still been married then, trying, at least on his end, to sort it all, then reeling from the yuletide shock of hearing of her latest infidelity.

 

She'd been cheating on him for years with various people, always running back and playing on his devotion to his children and that goddamn sense of honour and duty above all he possessed when it came to his job and his marriage vows. But then they'd have a row and off she went. This time, however, he was convinced had been just plain vindictive. 

 

She knew before they got together that he was bisexual, was one of the few people who knew that had never given him shit about it. But he and that PE teacher had been each other's first male love. They'd remained friends after parting, just going in different directions in life really all it was. Jack was getting scouted for professional football whilst all Greg wanted to do was be a cop like his Mum's brother. But Jack blew his knee before his big break and came back to London. Somehow, that woman had gotten her hands on him and it had been the last straw.

 

By then of course, Greg had already long rid himself of the romantic idea of Mycroft Holmes. Or so he thought. Sometimes it would sneak up on him, when the British government official would sweep into a situation all bespoke suits and black umbrellas. Or in the middle of the night, alone in his cramped flat, when he'd had more than a few and he found himself searching for pale freckled men with dark hair performing sexual acts with steel-haired ones.

 

Then Sherlock died.

 

He'd warily gone up to the man after the majority of the few mourners had gone to the wake being hosted by Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street. Mycroft had been standing stoically at the black polished granite headstone, waiting for everyone else to go before departing himself. Greg took the spot by his right and stared down at the golden letters in disbelief. He had no idea what to say to comfort Mycroft. Truthfully he didn't look like he needed it, but such was the reality of those kinds of people. The ones that often needed it most. Greg couldn't just invite him out to a pub(or over to his)to get him drunk and laid. He was probably going to make a cursory appearance at the wake then go right back to work doing... whatever it was he did, it wasn't very clear.

 

"I don't believe it," Greg had said lamely. "What they're all saying about him, I mean." He'd slightly tossed his head in the direction of the paparazzi, foaming at the mouth for any word about the disgraced dead. He'd also noticed several official looking men in nice suits keeping the press at bay.

 

Mycroft looked at him then and though he only had a couple of inches on the DI, he seemed much taller when those pale blue eyes were on you, scanning your every crevice in a rather unsettling manner. But Greg was used to Sherlock doing it by now and so withstood it unflinchingly. The reply had not been verbal. A curt nod then a hand, presenting the path to a familiar black sedan in which they rode silently to the wake.

 

There were phone calls after that. Some of them lasted for hours at odd times, depending on where, literally in the world Mycroft was. Greg always took them, however and always stayed on until Mycroft expressed regret at having to end the conversation. At first they were brusque requests to check on John. They gradually morphed into reminiscing, a story exchange, though most of Mycroft's had to do with when Sherlock was a child as the adult stories were often classified. 

 

Then, in the dark underground car park, where he was attempting to sneak a cigarette, Sherlock returned in full snark. Greg hugged him anyway right after implying that his parents weren't married when he was born. Of course he knew they were. He'd helped Mycroft host them in London a few times when they came to take in a show and see the sights, two things that, unless it was a foreign language opera or rare museum pieces kept in dusty archives, Mycroft could hardly bear. 

 

Their first kiss was a surprise on all fronts, when and where it occurred, how it came about, Mycroft's great skill. Well, the last one he should have known better about, as he hadn't yet come across anything that Mycroft couldn't do or learn quickly with precision.

 

"Goldfish", Mycroft had called everyone other than his brother and himself. Sherlock constantly complained about the intellect of the masses but Mycroft had never once, in the seven years they'd been acquainted, made Greg feel inferior. Not even with his mysterious kidnapping excursions, expensive tastes, and massive intellect. At least not to Greg's face, apparently.

 

Mycroft must have known Sherlock would say something. The younger man would say anything to wound when he was in a mood and this was no different. Greg had come to beg Sherlock's aid for the third time on a case that Sherlock had deemed way too dull to even consider. In order to chase him away, Sherlock expressed disgust in noticing the relationship blossoming between the two men, though neither Greg nor Mycroft had declared anything romantic. There had been a few lingering looks and some exchanges of private smiles, but nothing had been admitted even to themselves, let alone each other.

 

The "goldfish" comment had been the last straw, causing Greg to flee flat 'B' seething. He hated himself for being perpetually glad to see Mycroft, that his first reaction was always an electric jolt, making his heart skip and the pit of his stomach tickle. Even this angry, the sight of the impeccably dressed bureaucrat looking as if he was straightening the knocker on the street door Greg had just yanked open, almost made him smile in spite of himself. With one of the aforementioned private smiles and delighted surprise in his sparkling crystal blues, Mycroft greeted him as he always did once Greg had gotten through to him that he didn't have to call him Detective Inspector Lestrade all the time.

 

"Gregory! Good afternoon. I didn't..." Mycroft's words had trailed off having gotten a good look at him. "What did he say to you?"

 

"That us  _goldfish_  were going to have to sort this case on our own." Mycroft had sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his rather sharp nose, the end of which Greg had seen himself kissing in his wandering thoughts. "'Scuse me," he'd enunciated, attempting to get by. But Mycroft stood fast at first then, with surprising strength, pushed Greg back in, shutting the door and leaning back against it as if casually indicating that Lestrade was trapped. Greg thought hard about manhandling him out of the way but logic won out, though he wasn't happy about it, and petulantly crossed his arms.

 

"How many actual friends does Sherlock have that you know of, Gregory?"

 

"Wh... Well there's John, me, Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper." Greg had found himself answering before he could think to be properly irritable about it.

 

"As a child, he couldn't stand being around that many people, let alone befriending them. I've told you stories from that time. Few people were kind to him."

 

"Including you," Greg spat.

 

"You knew him when he'd hit rock bottom and was on the streets because he couldn't stay sober long enough to do anything useful," Mycroft continued as if he hadn't said anything.

 

"What's your point? I have to get going." Greg was pleased with himself for the bite in that response, despite unpleasantly emotional memories of a doped Sherlock, that razor sharp mind corrupted. The small victory was, however, short-lived.

 

"My point, Gregory," Mycroft said his name sharply, drawing himself up to his full height, "is that you saw something in him that very few people ever did. They didn't look past the drugs and other appalling behaviour." Just then, Greg noticed how close Mycroft had gotten, how he'd somehow steered him in a manner that put his back against the black wall between the foot of the stairs and the door. "You understood him in a way I never thought possible." Another step and Mycroft was in his personal space, smelling subtly of spice and carved wood. "You understand  _me_." Greg had kept his mouth closed by the skin of his teeth, fight or flight not yet kicking in, and battling with arousal. "The part of the conversation my brother neglected to mention to you was that he'd deduced that I was lonely."

 

Greg was at first unable to tear his eyes away from his lips as they formed words, thin yet soft, shapely, inviting. He'd licked his own and finally forced his dark eyes to meet light ones. "He told me you always say that caring is not an advantage."

 

"It isn't." Mycroft was now mere inches away and Greg still didn't really know how he was doing it, nor when Mycroft had reached up and cupped his cheek with his left hand. He was convinced that Sherlock could hear his heart all the way upstairs. Then there was the glorious confirmation of all his speculation about Mycroft's lips. The texture, shape, and taste of them was as luxurious as the man himself. 

 

Mycroft didn't skimp on anything in life it turned out. Things went rather quickly after that, but now that everyone involved knew exactly what they wanted, there was no reason it shouldn't have. Now here he was, staring in disbelief through the shop window he happened by on his lunch break. It was definitely a sign. 

 

He ate his sandwich and drank his coffee in his office, pointedly not thinking about what he'd just done, then further occupied his mind with paperwork and breaking up arguments between six foot man-children and Detective Sergeants who really should know better than to antagonize them. It was as if Sherlock had never left. But Greg couldn't bring himself to be too angry about it, though he put on his sternest front. Because sometime between the paperwork and parenting, there were two words left on his voicemail in a smooth voice.

 

"I will."

 

As expected, a car was waiting for him when he got out of work, the man himself posed casually, leaning on his ever-present umbrella. His right foot was crossed in front of his left, standing on the toe of his expensive shoes, his left hand stuffed in his trouser pocket. It was the charcoal pinstripe today, with the crimson tie. Greg's favourite as he thought it made Mycroft look like a classic gangster out of some of the old movies he enjoyed. He was only wanting a fedora which Mycroft had outright refused.

 

Until now. 

 

The hat was tilted cheekily on his head and it was all Greg could do not to jump the man in the street. Mycroft was very private and Greg tried his best to respect it. He barely contained himself, practically stuffing Mycroft back into the vehicle so he could kiss him senseless. He searched Mycroft's hand for what he'd had sent to the Diogenes Club, using his fingers then looked at it, frowning thoughtfully.

 

"I was waiting," Mycroft explained.

 

"For what?"

 

"I believe it's traditional for you to put it on me."

 

"Ah. Right. Give it here, then."

 

The ring was platinum set with a yellow gold fish sporting a tiny diamond eye. Inside, using a bold font, was stamped, " _The Only Exception._ "

 

It was from a song Greg would get stuck in his head and therefore hum or whistle all the time. Mycroft was used to the tune, a comfortable backdrop that meant  _Home_  to the often traveling official. One evening, when he was uncharacteristically home before his Detective Inspector, he actually heard the words. Some of the lyrics were general enough, displaying the inner workings of something that would appeal to the masses. But then:

 

_Maybe I know somewhere deep in my soul_

_That love never lasts._

_And we've got to find other ways to make it alone._

_Or keep a straight face._

_And I've always lived like this_

_Keeping a comfortable distance._

_And up until now I have sworn to myself_

_That I'm content with loneliness._

_Because none of it was ever worth the risk._

_Well you are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

 

The verse and chorus was his heart's mirror image and he'd shamefully teared up. What was worse(or so he thought at the time)was that Greg had come home just then, catching him in the act of crying over "inane pop drivel". Greg said nothing about it, just pressed a button on the music player then took him in his arms for a long, deep embrace, swaying to the rhythm and humming along in a throaty voice meant for love songs. It ended, then restarted in a seemingly endless cycle during which they made love slowly and sweetly on massive caramel coloured cushions he was now glad Gregory had insisted upon placing in front of the fireplace when he moved in. The flames cracked and snapped happily, warming their skin and casting golden light over everything.

 

The ring fit perfectly, Greg having somehow found out his size as Mycroft only wore a plain gold band on his right hand that belonged to his grandfather, and was a symbol of his station in a secret organization not even Sherlock knew about; and not for lack of trying.

 

The kisses became slower, Mycroft's slim, pale fingers sliding up into hair the same colour as the ring that now adorned the proper finger. Greg's face was a bit rough and, though Mycroft's skin was on the sensitive side, he enjoyed it. To him it was the physical representation of the man's ragged edges and it drove Mycroft a bit mad with desire every time it lightly scraped against his.

 

Suddenly, Greg was breathing strangely. It wasn't the normal panting of their snogging sessions but weird little huffs. It took Mycroft a moment to collect his thoughts enough(that's how good a kisser his Gregory was)to realize his fiancee(yes he actually got to call him that now)was laughing. He pulled his head back as far as it would go, which wasn't very far as somehow he was on his back.

 

"What's so funny?" It took Greg a full thirty seconds of leaning his forehead into Mycroft's neck in order to gather himself enough to reply.

 

"You have to let me tell Sherlock." That sent both of them into fits, only made worse by Mycroft's response.

 

"Only if you have John film his reaction on his mobile."

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song is by Paramore, just to give credit where credit is due. It's the first thing I thought of when Greg was proving himself the exception that proves Mycroft's rule.


End file.
